This is our wrestling mat.
It isn’t much to see.
Sort of furrowed yet flat.
The number of soles it has held has given it a soul.
Often I have slumbered on him.
Hard to others, gentle to me.
We beat his chest to a rhythmic hymn,
“No prisoners! No mercy! Meet me on the mat, it’s going down!”
Too old for the child’s games
My time has passed.
So I walk on this mat my core aflame
Time to satiate the youth’s brains until they are left aghast.
Worry not mat your time is far.
I will soon leave this Earth.
But don’t miss me, the world is bazaar.
Soon it will be the youth’s time. A new generation they will birth.
Will they look at you the same?
Will they see me in you?
Will they give you a well-deserved name?
I hope that they stay true, and do what they ought to.
Lights out for now my venerable friend.
I’ll mop you tomorrow.
Respite for now, this is our end.